"Ah, ah. There was white blood in her veins."
"And she taught you the white man's tongue?"
"Ah, ah. Even when I was a baby she would talk to me in English, but since she died I have not heard anyone speak it until you came."
"Do you know any other song?" Natsatt asked. "Did your mother teach you anything else?"
"Ah, ah. But I have forgotten most of them. There is one I remember quite well; it is so pretty."
"Will you sing it for me, please?"
Natsatt wished to hear her voice again, it was so perfectly natural. His soul had always been stirred by the sighing of the wind, the ripple of the brooks, or the spontaneous outpourings of the little feathered songsters. And now this sweet, clear voice was thrilling him in a similar manner.
"Our Northern skies are fresh and fair,
Our woodland trails are green;
I love the rock-ribbed mountains hoar,
And streams that race between.
For there upon a happy day,
When shadows danced and played,
There came a lover true and bold,
And found a dusky maid."
Placing the mouth-organ to his lips Natsatt accompanied her as she sang. Never before had the little companion of his wandering life sounded so sweet. How often had that frail instrument cheered his loneliness; what solitudes had reverberated its voice down long sombre arches; and how many trail-worn men, sitting around their camp fires at night had been stirred by thoughts of other and happier days. It had done wonderful things, that little mouth-organ, not because of any intrinsic value, but by reason of the soul which poured forth its deep longings through the simple mechanism. And Natsatt always played with much expression. But now his instrument seemed to be a living thing, and when Owindia had ceased singing the player drifted off upon various airs one after another in rapid succession. It was the one way in which he could give vent to his feelings. He could tell it exactly what was in his heart, whether of joy or sorrow. It was all the outpouring of joy now, the ecstasy of discovery, the feeling that another life of love had blended with his.
"Do all of the white race play like that?" asked Klitonda when Natsatt had ceased. "Can all make such wonderful sounds?"